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2.11 



Toast and Tea 



— BY- 
ELIZA SYMMES LUCAS 



CHAMPLIN PRESS - COLUMBUS. OHIO 






Copyright 1919 

By 

ELIZA SYMMES LUCAS 



cJ I 



jiy 



©aA559204 




Eliza Symmes Lucas 



TO MY PARENTS 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOVINGLY 

DEDICATED 

To The Father, 
whose memory I revere, whose 
encouragement and sympathy- 
were never wanting: 

To The Mother, 
whose dear companionship still 
cheers, comforts and blesses my 
earthly pilgrimage. 



INTRODUCTION 



BY SOME readers of this little book, this Introduction 
may be read before the following poems are read; by 
others, only afterwards. But no reader of this Intro- 
duction, let him read It when he may, will find In It an argu- 
ment proposing to prove that the verses have Interest and 
value. That goes without proof. The simple reading of them 
is enlough for that. And, after they have been read, some 
readers will return to give them studious and sympathetic 
re-perusal. From this a deeper and more affectionate ap- 
preciation will result. The fine mental and moral quali- 
ties of the author, her love for the fitting expression of clear 
thought and tender feeling, and her well formed habit of 
living outside the circle and above the level of mere triviality, 
will make their impression upon the heart of the reader, 
and draw him strongly toward the writer as well as toward 
the writings. 

When this becomes true, the reader who does not per- 
sonally know the author, will begin to feel toward her as I 
do. 

It was my good fortune to know something about her 
heart, mind, and life before she became a student In Rio 
Grande College. In her student work, she was my pupil 
in an important part of the course. I had the pleasure not 
only of seeing her reaching a high standing term after term, 
but also of observing the broadening of her mind and the 
enriching of her character, especially as she went master- 
fully thru the studies of the senior year in college. 

I have also been permitted to know of her varied and 
ripening work since. Her continuance of the use of poetic 
forms to chronicle interesting or significant events or record 
the deeper feelings of her heart has been more than once 



brought to my notice. It is natural, and perhaps unavoid- 
able, that there should arise in her mind the desire to pub- 
lish. The proper desire of leaving a permanent memorial 
of her work among friends and of gaining new friends, has 
brought about this publication. It will receive a prompt 
and wide welcome. 

Let us hope that it may be followed by others. Her 
powers are yet at their best and her situation and her 
public duties are full of suggestion and inspiration. Must 
we not expect the frequent recurrence of these fertile forms 
of experience and beautiful forms of expression.? For she 
is essentially a singing spirit 

In whom the melodies abide 
Of the everlasting chime. 

John Merrill Davis. 

Rio Grande, Ohio, 
December i, igiQ. 



TOAST AND TEA 

Invitation. 

Dear Friend, pray stop and sup with me, 
If but a moment you may spare; 

I'd much enjoy your company, 

Though poor and meager be my fare; 

'Tis but a bit of toast and tea, 

Yet served with hospitality. 

Of course you may not care to stay, 
Though you'll not need to tarry long; 

The toast is dry, perhaps you'll say. 
The tea is weak, or overstrong. 

Their quality I may not boast, 

'Tis not becoming in a host. 

But what I offer is my best, 

(In truth I'm sorry 'tis no better) 

And if I please a single guest, 

I'll count myself his humble debtor. 

Though dry the toast, sure you'll agree 

That can't be charged against the tea! 

Still, if you've such fastidious taste 
That this refreshment you disdain. 

Do not a moment longer waste, 
I would not wish you to remain: 

Though if you put it to the test, 

You'll find it easy to digest. 

But, should they chance to meet your favor, 
(My plain and simple toast and tea) 

Who find their quality and flavor 
With your peculiar taste agree, 

I'd have you feel at my tea-party, 

To all I serve, a welcome hearty! 

'Tis true of much I cannot boast, 

I only hope to please the few 
Who partial are to tea and toast, 

And that the number includes you; 
Because I should not quite despair, 
If for my toast and tea you care. 



While some may loudly criticise 
My humble offering as o'erbold, 

And such presumption deem unwise, 
I'm sure that you need not be told 

This light refreshment's not designed 

To pass for more substantial kind. 

Indeed I'm very well aware 

That richer viands, most prefer. 

To whom my simple, homely fare, 
As tempting, scarcely would occur. 

But sometimes, just a cup of tea 

Refreshes one surprisingly! 

I would that I might entertain. 
In regal splendor, style and grace. 

And that of lack none could complain, 
Who at my board should find a place. 

I would a splendid banquet, spread. 

But ah! I've toast and tea, instead! 

'Twould be my pride as well as care. 
To furnish such a sumptuous feast, 

That none with it might e'en compare, 
To its disparagement, at least. 

'Twould rival those a King esteems — 

The royal banquet of my dreams! 

I'd set before your wondering gaze. 
Such products rare, that even you. 

My learned critic, could but praise. 
If I could have my dreams come true. 

Upon that board, you would not see 

Such common things, as toast and tea. 

But still, I dare to entertain 

The hope that you will make the most 
Of what I serve, and not disdain 

At least to taste my tea and toast 
Before they're "laid upon the shelf," 
So, if you will, pray help yourself! 



THE EMBARKMENT. 

I stand today on the craggy shore 

Of a gloomy, dark and treacherous sea, 

And though its roughs have been braved before, 
It is, as yet, unknown to me. 

I look far out o'er the waters wide. 

But I cannot see the other side. 

The gathering mist that veils my eyes, 
I know not what it hides from view, 

But I hear the sound of wailing cries, 
And echoes of gay laughter, too; 

Yet few sail serenely from beach to beach, 

While many the far shore never reach. 

But those who embark on this treacherous deep, 
Must always reckon with wind and wave. 

And the fearful storms that sometimes sweep 
A gallant bark to a watery grave. 

Yet, if strong to weather the awful blast. 

It may safely sail into port at last. 

For some have succeeded — the strong and the good, 
Billows and tempests burst o'er them in vain, 

Oh! the perils braved and hardships stood 
In struggling 'gainst the surging main! 

But they safely stemmed the rolling tide. 

And are anchored now on the other side. 

That distant shore holds the goals of life, 
But the sea of Endeavor lies between; 

For the goal I would win, I must make the strife. 
Though the end of the struggle be unforseen. 

Though the sea be rough, and deep, and wide, 

I must cross it to reach the other side. 

But hark! In the distance sounds a cry 

Of wild despair! — A ship is lost! 
Going down alone, no aid is nigh. 

Ah! who can tell what the struggle cost! 
No helping hand is stretched to save. 
So 'tis swallowed up by the hungry wave! 



Shall I falter with fear and be faint of heart, 
As I look out over the waters spread? 

Though I tremble, I know I must make the start, 
Yet comes to my heart an awful dread 

Lest the ship that is now my fondest pride, 

May never reach the other side. 

I gaze far out o'er the trackless waste — 
O'er the gloomy, dark, foreboding sea, 

I shudder and shrink, but I must haste, 
My bark is ready to sail, ah me! 

So I trust in God to help me guide 

In safety my ship to the other side. 



WritUn in 1886. 



10 



A VIEW FROM THE HILLTOP. 

I stood on the hilltop one day and looked down 

On the broad stretching valley below, and the town 

That clings to the winding river's bend, 

And I watched from its chimneys the blue smoke ascend. 

I watched it wreathe and curl and play, 
Then, wreathing and curling, melt away; 
And yet I can see with Memory's eyes, 
Its phantom billows fall and rise. 

My soul enraptured, seemed to float 
To some enchanting realm, remote 
From all earth's cares and secret woes, 
To some sweet Eden of repose. 

Such was the charm my spirit felt. 
As I gazed o'er the valley wherein I dwelt. 
How my fond heart swelled with love and pride, 
As I drank in its beauty — far and wide! 

Beyond It in grandeur majestic, rise high. 

Hills upon hills, till they blend with the sky; 

And as I remember that one day, it seems 

Such days could exist but In Heaven — and dreams! 

That day it seemed all nature was kind, 
All forms of one harmonious mind. 
Agreeing each other's splendors to share, 
The sky lent the river her blue to wear. 

That beauteous stream! — That blue winding river! 
Yet, in fancy, I see the sunbeams quiver 
On its broad, smooth expanse, sparkling between 
Meadows of living gold and green! 

Shall I ever stand on that hilltop again, 
And view the same scenes that I velwed then — 
That day, when for me, all nature smiled, 
When I was naught but a little child.? 

11 



Ah! can I forget the place of my birth, 
Where first my eyes ope'd to this beauteous earth? 
Can I ever forget that first, best loved spot? 
Never! Though Heaven, itself, were forgot! 

Written in 1884. 



TO A STREAM. 

On thy fair, bonny banks, while a May morn smiled. 

In innocent joy played a little child. 

And sweet-scented blossoms around her grew wild. 

The birds sang and the hills rang 
With the gay songs they sung; 

Her heart beat light as the cheery birds', quite. 
And her laugh, it merrily rung. 

But as swift as thy flow. 

The years come and go. 

'Twas a sweet summer night and the breezes mild 
Kissed the brow of a maid, once that little child, 
And a youth whose heart beat in rapture wild. 

Thy spray caught the ray 
Of the moon's gentle beam; 

Glances sweet, softly meet 
In love's first sweet dream. 

But as swift as thy flow. 

The years come and go. 

Ah! Time lingers not! A day stays but a day! 

That sweet summer night, that bright morn in May, 

And youth's joyous years long ago passed away! 

Still the star from afar. 
Palely gleams on thy breast; 

But those two true-hearted. Fate rudely parted — 
Who knows? Perhaps 'twas best. 

Still as swift as thy flow, 

The years come and go. 

Written in 1884. 

12 



THE COT 'NEATH THE HILL. 

Out in the cold world a wand'rer I roam, 
Away from my friends, away from my home, 
'Mong strangers I battle for raiment and bread, 
For backs must be clothed, and mouths must be fed; 
But in fancy's wild flights I wander at will, 
And in fancy I fly to the cot 'neath the hill. 

Once more I am happy within its four walls. 
Once more sweetest music upon my ear falls, 
For the voices of father and mother I hear. 
And no other music can so charm my ear. 
Above life's jarring discords, my heart echoes still 
That melody heard in the cot 'neath the hill. 

In the fierce heat of toil, in the midst of dark cares, 
I remember that cot, and I do in my prayers; 
'Tis the home of my parents, O most hallowed spot! 
How can I forget thee, thou far-away cot! 
I can meet the world's frown, but my heart 'twill not chill 
While mem'ry can turn to the cot 'neath the hill. 

Away from its shelter an exile I roam, 

But my heart fondly clings to that dear, cottage home. 

Though humble, no palace how stately or fair, 

Or gorgeous in splendor, with it may compare! 

Though I roam the wide world, let me go where I will, 

There's no place on earth, like the cot 'neath the hill! 

In dreams I behold oft again the loved spot. 

That holy of holies — that dear, sacred cot; 

Such visions I welcome with rapturous joy. 

Though the dawns all these blissful illusions destroy; 

I awake with a start and an anguishing thrill. 

To remember I'm far from the cot 'neath the hill! 

Out in the cold world I've wandered afar. 
But the cot 'neath the hill, like a fixed, guiding star,. 
Sheds over my pathway a clear, lustrous light. 
Dispelling the gloom and illuming the night. 
Its bright rays shall follow my footsteps until 
I'm safe once again in the cot 'neath the hill. 

Written in i88g. 

13 



THREE SCORE AND TEN. 

When life's fair morning on thee smiled, 
And youth was full of radiant hope, 

When thou wert but a happy child. 
How distant seemed its shadowy slope! 

How long the morning hours and slow! 

How swift the fervid noontide passed! 
And now has come the sunset glow, 

'Tis here — that far-off time, at last! 

For on thy brow the crown of age 

Rests like a silvery diadem. 
And Time has turned for thee the page 

On which is writ, "Three score and ten!" 

What pleasure, in the calm of eve, 
To draw apart from din and strife. 

And let the memory subtly weave 

The threads that form the web of life. 

Some threads are rich and gay and bright 
As any rainbow-tinted dream. 

While some are somber-hued as night, — 
How thick among the bright they seem! 

While thus alone, from all apart, 

Thou'rt musing on thy vanished years. 
What hallowed memories stir thy heart, 

And move the fountain of thy tears! 

What visions float thine eyes before! 

What voices all thy being thrill! 
Around thee throng thy friends of yore, 

Some, friends whose voices now are still. 

And there amidst the band, is one — 
An angel boy with seraph smile. 

Whose stay on earth so soon was done; 
He only strayed from Heaven awhile. 

14 



The best of life should be the last, 
Serene and peaceful its repose, 

The riches of the treasured past, 

More precious prove as each year goes. 

And, as adown life's shadowy slope, 
Thy faltering footsteps further press. 

May faith sublime and glorious hope. 
Thy journey's onward progress bless! 

To my mother, Louisa M. Lucas, on 
her 70th birthday, April 28th, 1903. 



16 



FOUR SCORE AND FOUR. 

How swiftly wing the flying years, 
As life's highway I journey o'er; 

How long the way behind appears, 
How short before! 

Yes, time speeds by with noiseless flight, 
My morning hours, how quickly passed! 

And glowing noon fast changed to night, 
Too bright to last! 

Around me fall the deepening shades, 
The evening of my day is here; 

Earth's vain and empty glory fades, 
As Heaven draws near. 

My life's a tale that's well-nigh told, 
Its fitful dreams are almost o'er, 

My years proclaim that I am old, — 
Four score and four! 

And not alone my years, ah no! 

The faltering step, the failing eye. 
The furrowed brow, this crown of snow, — 

All testify. 

But pausing now and then to rest. 
The traveler turns him to survey 

The lengthening path his feet have pressed,- 
The backward way. 

What thrills of mingled joy and pain. 
Within my bosom rise and swell. 

As memory leads me back again. 
By magic spell. 

Again the friends of yore I see. 

Dear comrades of the days gone by, 

How many wait to welcome me 
Beyond the sky! 

16 



And I behold with clearer eyes, 
One dearer loved than all the rest 

That wait for me in Paradise, 
Where all are blest. 

Companion both in sun and shade, 
He was the sunshine of my heart, 

To whom the sacred vow I made, 
"Till death us part!" 

As twilight's gathering shades appear, 
The heavenly vision grows more bright, 

"At eventide," O promise dear! 
"It shall be light." 

So, trusting in God's love and power, 

With strengthening hope of life to come, 

I calmly wait, nor dread the hour 
That calls me home. 

To my Aunt Eliza M. Symmes, on the 
S^ih anniversary of her birth, 
April i8th, 1904. 



17 



AN APRIL SHOWER. 

My mother's had a birthday, 

As everybody knows, 
At least, 'most everybody. 

Her shower of greeting shows, 



Which came from every quarter, 
From friends both far and near, 

From children and grandchildren. 
Brothers and sisters dear. 



From nephews and from nieces 

The greetings were galore. 
From friends at home and friends abroad 

Were added many more. 

It was a treat to see and note 

The pleasure and surprise 
That beamed upon the dear, old face. 

And shone within her eyes. 

When she found within the mail-box, 
Such a rich and bounteous store, 

And as she read with eager haste. 
Each loving message o'er. 

And more than once her eyes were dim 

With a sudden starting tear. 
When they fell upon some tender word, 

From one she holds most dear. 

How many cherished memories 
Of days of "Auld Lang Syne," 

Were waked by some familiar hand 
In the tracing of a line! 

And how surprised to hear from friends 
Unheard from many a year; 

She did not dream from some of these 
She e'er again would hear. 

18 



And so the birthday came and went, 

But left behind a joy — 
A fragrant memory in the heart, 

That time can ne'er destroy. 



To Mother- 
On the 77th Anniversary 
of her birth. April 28th, igio. 



19 



A BIRTHDAY GREETING. 

To thee, my teacher and my friend, 

A birthday greeting warm, I send; 

With thee rejoice that Time shouldst be 

So kind and generous to thee; 

And yet, this boon of him I pray. 

To spare thee still for many a day. 

To spare thee still to use thy might 
Against the wrong and for the right; 
To use thy wondrous gift of speech. 
To shame the false, the truth to teach. 
Thy work for others still to do, 
God's plans and purposes pursue. 

So gently hath Time touched thy brow, 

That, though thy years are three score now, 

I marvel at the youthful grace 

I see reflected in thy face. 

The spirit's ever young, I hold; 

Who says that thou art growing old.^ 

Time, in his ceaseless, onward roll, 

But adds new vigor to the soul; 

Though in a tenement of clay. 

The deathless soul knows no decay. 

But only richer, riper grows, 

With summer suns and winter snows. 

When is one old.'* ah! who may know.? 
Who, secret of the mystery, show.? 
An eye bedimmed, or silvery hair, 
A faltering step, form bent by care, 
Are these the tokens — such alone. 
That prove when one has older grown? 

Ah no! the signs by which 'tis told 
When one has graciously grown old, 
Are not all found in locks of snow, 
Or failing eye, or step grown slow; 
Not in the mortal frame whose power 
Doth bloom and wither as a flower. 



But in the tranquil spirit's poise, 
The spirit free from earth alloys, 
Its perfect trust, its faith sublime. 
That sees beyond the bounds of time; 
Its quick response to woe's appeals, 
The tender sympathy it feels. 

Oh! envy not youth's idle boast! 

'Tis but a dream, or hope, at most. 

Which, like a budding leaf or flower. 

May, hapless, perish in an hour; 

While age may boast of dreams come true, 

Of great things done and not to do\ 

The winged years as they have flown. 
Held sacred treasures all their own. 
Each brought its pleasures and its pains, 
Its blessings, losses, and its gains. 
From which thy spirit learned some truth 
Unknown to visionary youth. 

Oh! rich indeed, my friend, art thou! 
Be proud, content and happy now! 
Rich in a faith grown strong with years, 
Rich in the love that calms all fears, 
Rich in the memories of thy past. 
Who would not prize a wealth so vast? 

To Miss Ruth E. Brockett, 
Preceptress of Rio Grande College, 
on her 62nd birthday, March gth, 1903. 



21 



HONOR TO WHOM HONOR IS DUE. 



Upon this dear, familiar spot, 

With cherished memories richly fraught, 

Like to a loyal soldier band, 

The student hosts of Rio Grande, 

With single purpose to attain. 

Have rallied to her call again. 

From hills and vales, from far and near, 

Tonight her children gather here. 

To honor one we hold most dear! 



We students of old Rio Grande, 

Who form a strong and steadfast band, 

With one accord and loud acclaim. 

Unite in honoring his name, 

Whose store of learning, wealth of mind. 

Make him a power among mankind; 

Whose precepts and example, each, 

The loftiest truths and virtues, teach; 

Whose character presents to view 

Such noble traits and faults so few; 

Whose clean, pure life, in its design. 

Exemplifies the one Divine! 

Together here tonight we meet. 

Our peerless President to greet. 

And lay our tributes at his feet! 

To celebrate in fitting way. 

And mark this anniversary day. 

For, as the record now appears. 

His work of twenty-five long years. 

In our loved school of Rio Grande, 

Completed and approved doth stand. 

His worth and work cannot be sung. 

Or fitly praised by pen or tongue; 

Eternity alone can show 

How much to him his pupils owe. 

22 



While we rejoice with him to-day, 
In twenty-five years more, we pray, 
When they shall roll around complete, 
That we may then together meet, 
And when reunions here are o'er. 
We'll rally on the other shore, 
And in that brighter, better land, 
Unite the hosts of Rio Grande! 



To Dr. John M. Davis, 
President of Rio Grande College, upon 
the completion of his twenty-fifth 
year of work in that institution. 
Celebrated June 15th, igo^.. 



23 



RIO GRANDE. 

There's a place in Gallia County, 
Dear to me, 

Where nature's harid with lavish bounty- 
Full and free. 

Has scattered wealth of charm exquisite, 

'Tis a place I love to visit. 

Do you, can you ask, where is it? 
Go and see. 

As to Rome, all roads lead to it, — 

Far and near. 
Should you take one, you'll not rue it, 

Never fear! 
But thereafter you'll pursue it, 
Sure and eager be to do it. 
Glad and anxious to review it 

Every year. 

'Tis on Gallia's bosom resting, 

'Mong the hills. 
Like a mother-bird while nesting, 

Safe from ills; 
Loyal to her heart's selection — 
There my heart turns with affection. 
While my memory courts reflection 

With its thrills. 

There our people flock together 

Every June, 
What may be the wind or weather. 

Or the moon, — 
Whether in the "dark," or shining, 
Showing clouds with silver lining. 
Or behind the hills decHning 

All too soon. 

There the student minds may blossom 

Like the rose. 
Few the dangers there to cross them. 

Or oppose, 

24 



But in steady march advancing, 
No retreat, no backward glancing, 
With each step, the goal entrancing 
Nearer grows. 

'Tis old Gallia's seat of knowledge 

And her pride, 
Her beloved and fruitful college 

Famed so wide: — 
The fairest, finest in the land. 
To thee I pledge my heart and hand 
And loyalty, O Rio Grande! 

True and tried! 

Heaven's love and care enfold thee, 

Rio Grande! 
Dear our hearts shall ever hold thee, 

Understand. 
We pray no ill may thee betide. 
To thee no blessing be denied. 
For thee, we know, there's none beside 

In the land! 

Years speed by with rapid measure, 

By the score. 
But thy memory I treasure 

More and more. 
When age shall crown my brow with snow. 
And feeble footsteps move too slow, 
To thee, in memory, still I'll go 

As of yore. 

Time may grief and trouble cause me. 

Life's demand, 
But thy magic charms and draws me 

Like a band — 
Draws and holds me, and O never, 
Shall the strong tie break or sever, 
Bound, my heart, to thee forever, 

Rio Grande! ' 

To my Alma Mater, June, igi8. 

25 



REFLECTIONS 
On the High School Class of 1909. 

The High School class of 1909, 
A theme for story, song, or rhyme, 
Demands a worthier pen than mine. 
Could I reherse its fame and glory, 
'Twould be, indeed, a wondrous story, 
For you must know its members nine, 
The brilliance of the stars outshine. 

First, Rachel Butcher, good and true, 
Is just the girl for me and you. 
Both wise and gentle, she is, too. 
Her chosen path to honor leads, 
By which one always best succeeds. 
She does not oft engage in strife. 
Preferring higher planes of "Life." 

Next, Ethyl Clark, dear little maid! 

To her mother dear, she lends her aid; 

In fact, of work, she isn't afraid. 

She sweeps and bakes and mends her clothes, 

Much in and out of a book she knows. 

She hustles 'round like a regular Turk, 

She knows what's what, and "What is Work." 

The next whose praises I shall sing. 
You'll know at once, to be Madge King, 
For pluck, she does beat anything! 
She's brave and witty, bright and gay, 
And seems light-hearted all the day. 
Besides, I'm sure she's kind and dutiful. 
Her home is in "Ohio Beautiful." 

Now Flossie Luckey, you'll confess 

A charming maiden, nothing less. 

Yet, from her air, you'd never guess 

How much she knows, nor yet how plucky 

Can be this modest Flossie Luckey. 

You can't find a more surprising one. 

From here to the "Land of the Rising Sun." 

26 



Blanche Matthews next claims your attention, 
A girl indeed worth while to mention; 
To praise her, needs no rare invention. 
There is none brighter in her class, 
Or worthier than this winsome lass. 
Preserves are her delight, one knows. 
Her "Preservation of Forests" shows. 

The next one in this class of nine, 
That claims from me a passing rhyme, 
Is one who has a record fine. 
She's spirited and has a troop 
Of virtues rare, has Carrie Rupe, 
And more she has — a kind of craze, 
"The Reconstruction of Water Ways." 

Now in this model class is one 
Whose record cannot be outdone. 
Most nobly were his laurels won! 
His name.^ — Oh yes! I 'most forgot 
To tell you that. It's Hollis Scott. 
He's proved by his heroic plan, 
A hero, as "The Laboring Man." 

The next is clever as you'll find. 
Besides she's gracious, sweet and kind; 
I'm sure you've guessed the one in mind. 
Yes, Helen Thomas is her name, 
Which may someday be known to fame, 
Though her investment now be small. 
She'll gain "The Interest on the Principal." 

Now Mary Ward must not be passed. 
Though in this list she stands the last, 
For at the foot, she can't be classed. 
Sometimes the order is reversed, 
The first is last, the last is first. 
And of any, Mary stands the peer. 
In this, "The Great Centennial Year." 

To the Cheshire High School Class of igoQ. 

27 



"WE HAVE CROSSED THE BAY— 

THE OCEAN LIES BEFORE US." 

Before us the great, broad ocean lies, 

We have only crossed the bay; 
We gaze o'er its waters with anxious eyes, 
And see but the Hne where it meets the skies — 
Alas! such a little way! 

But we know that beyond, it stretches far, 

That its waters are deep and wide; 
We are leaving the bay and the sandy bar, 
And launching out where the billows are — 
Out on the swelling tide! 

Our hopes rise high and our hearts beat light. 

As our boat glides gaily along 
O'er the waters sparkling, clear and bright, 
Like a blithesome bird wings its airy flight, 

While echo repeats our song. 

From treacherous shoals we must safely steer, 
And the sharp rocks 'neath the spray, 

The distant breakers we do not fear. 

Their sullen roar we cannot hear, 
They are yet, too far away. 

The trackless waste before us spread. 

We view with youth's conceit, 
For little we fear and less we dread 
That unknown perils may lie ahead, 

But such we are ready to meet. 

Ah! such is our courage, such the heart, 

As we launch upon Life's great sea! 
'Tis thus on the voyage of life we start. 
But the test is, how we shall act our part. 
When we meet calamity. 

28 



When the sea runs high and on every side 

The tempests round us blow, 
Ah! then if we're able to stem the tide, 
And brave the storm and the billows ride, 

True courage we may show. 

For we may not hope to smoothly sail 

All the way from beach to beach, 
But expect to encounter many a gale. 
And at last, perhaps, we may sadly fail 

Of the port we long to reach. 

We are hoping to enter the port "Success," 

Or the harbor of "Great Renown," 
But our ship may meet with dire distress, 
What its fate may be, we cannot guess. 
Yet we pray it may not go down. 

But though we may miss the shining goal, 

The harbor fail to gain. 
Though our puny strength may not control 
The boisterous waves that round us roll, 

The struggle will not be vain, 

If we trust not alone in our feeble powers, 

To stem the rolling tide. 
But depend on the Hand that is stronger than ours, 
When the sea is calm, or the storm-cloud lowers, 

Our precious ship to guide. 

To the Cheshire High School Class of 191 5, 
whose motto is the title here used. 



29 



A TOKEN OF LOVE. 

Deep, deep within my heart enshrined, 
Are memories, sister mine, of thee, 

Whose Ufe and love have been entwined 
With mine from infancy. 

How long the years since childhood's days, 
Which we, together happy, spent, 

Since we have gone our separate ways. 
Upon life's work intent. . 

So long ago those days now seem, 
Which recollection still holds dear, 

That like a vivid, happy dream 
They now, indeed, appear. 

But as the years their changes rung, 
Our pathways farther grew apart. 

Still heart to heart together clung, 
No change was in the heart. 

Companion thou, and sharer too. 
Of all my childish joy and grief. 

No sorrow that my childhood knew, 
But found, through thee, relief. 

And still, amid life's changing scenes. 
My heart, for counsel, turn to thee. 

And on thy strength and courage leans. 
Assured of sympathy. 

Oh loyal heart! thy truth and worth, 
Thy splendid value can't be told: 

No rarer spirit dwells on earth, 
No heart of purer gold! 

There is a place within my heart, 
— A consecrated, inner shrine. 

For thee, dear sister, set apart. 
Entirely, wholly, thine. 

To my sister, Augusta M. Bing, igig. 

30 



THE RUINS. 

Here, once my habitation stood, 
(A structure of a noble mold) 

Where now I stand In solemn mood, 
And mourn the wreck that I behold. 

That home a shapeless ruin lies, 

I see, yet scarce believe my eyes. 

Ah no! it cannot, cannot be! 

This wreck I only seem to view, 
These crumbling walls I seem to see, 

But only seem — it can't be true! 
It is some wild, fantastic dream 
In which strange fancies real seem. 

I would it were, but ah alas! 

It is no dream, no fancy wild; 
'TIs fallen! In this shapeless mass 

The ruins of my home are piled. 
By one swift stroke destruction came, 
A bolt — then quick, devouring flame. 

'TIs perished! gone! Its day is o'er! 

No more it waits my glad return, 
A haven for my rest no more. 

For which I sadly, vainly, yearn. 
No longer does Its outline rise 
Against the background of the skies. 

I never thought to see its end — 
To see its splendor laid In dust, 

I grieve as for a cherished friend, 
I sorrow as I, only, must. 

For I, alone of all, am left 

To mourn Its loss, or feel bereft. 

A mass of wreckage now It lies. 

Though fragments of Its walls remain, 

Where windows stare like sightless eyes 
That seem to suffer secret pain. 

The pain I know Is in my heart. 

To see Its glory thus depart. 

31 



But ah! a vision fills my eyes, 

That blots these blackened walls from view; 
I see a stately outline rise 

In bold relief against the blue. 
The picture's etched upon my brain, 
With every detail clear and plain. 

I see the roof that sheltered me 

Through youth's long, happy, care-free years; 
Oh! every feature still I see. 

So vividly it all appears. 
Indeed the vision of it seems 
To haunt my memory and dreams. 

I see the walls both high and wide — 
The massive walls so thick and stout; 

The windows set on every side, 

From which so often I've looked out; 

I see the porch, the open door 

Through which I enter as of yore. 

Within the old, familiar rooms, 

I wander free, as fancy leads; 
How bright the vision of them looms! 

How swiftly fancy through them speeds! 
I mount the stairways, broad and high, 
So often climbed in days gone by. 

Here is the wide and spacious hall, 

And here, the chambers for the guest, 

And here, the parlor, which of all 
The loved rooms, I loved the best. 

And here's the hearth we gathered round, 

When wintry snows were on the ground. 

And oh! the faces, dear and fair, 
I see around that glowing hearth! 

How few of those that gathered there 
Are left to cheer my stay on earth! 

So, where the firelight used to shine, 

In memory becomes a shrine. 



O cherished home, come back once more! 

Within thy shelter let me rest! 
Protect and guard me as of yore, — 

A fledgling safe within its nest. 
O home beloved! my tears fall fast 
In memory of the happy past. 

Among the mansions in the skies, 
If there be waiting one for me — 

To greet my soul with glad surprise, 
I would 'twere fashioned after thee! 

To find once more the home I miss 

And mourn, would add to Heaven's bliss. 

In memory of the Old Homestead, knozv7i as the 
Symmes Place, destroyed by lightiyig in igi2. 



33 



A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. 

We kindred who today assemble, 

The branches of a tree resemble, 

And such, in very truth, are we, 

The branches of a Family-Tree; 

And one whose roots are deep and strong, 

Is that to which we all belong, ^ 

In which we take a common pride. 

It's grown so large and spread so wide. 

And yet is growing, day by day. 

Nor sign of blight does it betray. 

But still in vigorous strength appears, 

Despite the burden of its years; 

It promises to live alway. 

And never wither or decay! 

Now, we of Matthews blood or name, 
— a heritage to proudly claim. 
Although we cannot trace our blood 
Quite back as far as Noah's Flood, 
Nor yet to any royal race. 
May such a noble lineage trace. 
That none who bear the Matthews name. 
For that, need ever blush for shame; 
But rather should he blush who dares 
Disgrace the honored name he bears. 
Among the ones, who, gone before, 
The name of Matthews nobly bore. 
Are our forebears who slumber here, 
Who've lain at rest full many a year. 

In spirit and in purpose, one. 

We kindred have together done 

The work on which our hearts were set, 

And here together we have met. 

Besides a host of other kin 

Who could not come, are counted in. 

All meet in spirit here today. 

And fitting tribute fain would pay 

34 



To these, whose memory we revere, 

Whose sacred dust reposes here. 

To mark this consecrated spot. 

And prove that they are not forgot, 

The solemn rites we here observe, 

And this Memorial Stone may serve. 

It stands for all we would express 

Of love and gratitude, nor less 

Our sense of deep indebtedness. 

How much we feel to them we owe, 

This granite stone is here to show! 

In grateful memory of the worth 

Of these whose lives have blessed our birth, 

To these, whose blood we proudly own. 

We place and dedicate this stone! 

Yet meager seems what we bestow. 

Compared with the debt we owe. 

When we recall those early years 
Of struggle by the pioneers. 
How rich, bow blest, our lot appears! 
Their trials and struggles blazed the way 
Which we pursue with ease today. 
'Tis by the hardships they endured 
Our ease and comforts are secured. 
When we the present with the past 
In many various ways contrast. 
Large looms the advantage on our side. 
So much have we, they were denied. 
We wonder how they lived, indeed. 
Without the things we seem to need — 
The things of which they did not dream, 
That common comforts, to us, seem. 
We marvel at the hardihood. 
That every kind of hardship stood. 
And such as bravely stood the test, 
Our noble ancestry possessed. 

Since early times, with rapid pace, 
How great a change has taken place! 

35 



Here is a prospect, fair to view 
As any, one may journey to; 
But we who gather here to-day, 
A vastly different scene survey 
From that which must have met the gaze 
Of pioneers, in early days. 
I seem to see as on a screen, 
(Imagination paints the scene) 
This landscape as it then appeared, 
When few small tracts of land were cleared, 
And fewer rude log cabins reared; 
When still the Red Man roamed at will. 
Along these shores, from hill to hill. 
And then, I seem to see, again, 
A slowly westward-moving train. 
Each heavy-laden caravan 
By oxen drawn — a double span. 
O'er mountain heights, o'er vales between. 
O'er many a deep and wild ravine. 
O'er unbridged rivers, swift and wide, 
(Yet somehow crossed from side to side) 
By slow degrees and long delays. 
By devious and dangerous ways, 
Beset by savage and by beast. 
It journeys onward from the East — 
This little emigrating band 
That's traveling to a distant land, 
Intending there to make a home, 
And cultivate the virgin loam. 



With such a little band, there came 
One, Phineas Matthews called by name, 
Who, at that period of time. 
Was in his manhood's youthful prime. 
The sire, and yet grandsire to be 
Of unborn generations, he! 
To try his fortune with the rest. 
He sought the far-famed Middle West, 
And on Ohio's lovely shore, 
(His long and toilsome journey o'er) 

36 



He found what he had sought, at last, 

And there his future lot was cast. 

No doubt this fertile valley seemed 

The garden-spot of which he'd dreamed! 

He came, at length, to settle here, 

His home and family to rear, 

And, during his eventful life. 

Three separate times he took a wife. 

In this, 'tis only fair to state 

That, judging by each chosen mate, 

'Twould seem at least, he did not make 

A very great or sad mistake; 

From sturdy, sterling stock each came. 

Who shared, in turn, his lot and name; 

Each bore him sons and daughters, too. 

The total number, (not a few) 

Was something close to twenty-two! 

Thus adding branches to our "Tree,'' 

And multiplying progeny. 

So, 'tis a fact none can deny. 

He could both add and multiply. 



As he deserved, he prospered, too. 

From small to large his fortune grew. 

In circumstances richly blessed. 

He much of this world's goods possessed, 

While stretching far on every hand. 

Lay acres of his fertile land! 

But, with a lavish hand, he gave, 

The while he toiled long years to save. 

A Christian not in name alone. 

But by his works the fact was shown. 

The widow and the orphan, too, 

His generous gifts and kindness knew. 

His name, for Christ-like deeds was known, 

What better fortune could one own.-* 

And, to his honor be it said, 

A clean and useful life he led; 

37 



Above reproach of all mankind 

The record he has left behind; 

While the example he has set, 

Is worthy imitation, yet; 

His character — each noble trait. 

We would do well to emulate, 

And thus preserve from stain or shame. 

The honor of our blood and name. 

Written for and read upon the occasion of 
the Dedication of a Monument to my grand- 
father. Captain Phineas Matthews and con- 
sorts, September 28th, igi6. 



88 



THE LAST RALLY. 

From fair Ohio's Seat of State, 

A call comes ringing o'er the hills, 

To meet there on a given date, 
(Which every loyal bosom thrills) 

To render homage to our Flags 

That war reduced to shreds and rags! 



O Veteran Heroes, brave and true! 

Put on your regimentals gay! 
That call, indeed, is meant for you, 

So to Columbus haste away. 
The honor of those Flags to share. 
Once more your sacred colors bear! 



To follow, with sad step and slow. 
Those banners once so bravely borne. 

Those relics of the long-ago, 

Now battle-scarred and stained and torn; 

To pay to them that tribute mute. 

The soldier's reverent salute! 



Ohio bids her "Boys" to come. 

And welcomes them with outstretched hand,- 
Her Veteran "Boys," who still are some 

Among the bravest in the land. 
In honor of those blood-stained folds. 
Whose every shred she dearly holds! 



Unfurl those Battle-flags once more, 
To freely float upon the air! 

Unfurl them once again, before 

They're laid away with tender care; 

Oh! let the peaceful breezes blow 

And softly sway them to and fro! 

39 



Yes, let the winds of heaven play 
Among their tatters once again, 

For never may. another day 

Present them thus, to sight of men; 

So fling them out upon the breeze, 

To thrill the heart and eye that sees! 

Once, in the thickest of the fray, 

Mid shot and shell and cannon's roar, 

Where hosts of dead and dying lay, 
A royal part these banners bore. 

All honor to these glorious Flags, 

Though shattered, tattered, torn to rags! 

Unfurl again these remnants gory. 

Then lay away with reverent touch — 

The emblems of our nation's glory. 
Which mean, to loyal hearts, so much! 

Ay! fold with care each priceless token, 

To rest in endless peace unbroken. 

Written in honor of Ohio's Battle-flags, 
upon the occasion of their transference from 
the Relic Room to the Rotunda of the Cap- 
itol, where they are to permanently remain, 
encased and sealed in receptacles especially 
designed for thepurpose, April, igi6. 



40 



IN HONOR OF OHIO'S BATTLE FLAGS. 

Pause, ye, within this sacred shrine, 
These cherished Battle Flags to view, 

Where they repose in solemn line, 
And pay to them the tribute due! 

To them the deepest reverence tender, 

A patriot's loyal homage render! 

Once, in the thickest of the fray, 
Mid shot and shell and cannon's roar, 
Where hosts of dead and dying lay, 

A royal part these banners bore. 
All honor to these glorious folds 
Ohio's heart so dearly holds! 

Furled now, for aye, these remnants gory, 
And laid away with reverent touch — 

The emblems of our nation's glory 
Which mean, to loyal hearts, so much! 

Ay, furled with care each priceless token. 

To rest in endless peace unbroken. 

Written by request to be framed and hung in the 
Rotunda of the Capitol, where it has occupied a 
place since the Battle Flags were transferred there. 
igi6. 



41 



THE SILENT BUGLE. 

Wrapped now in silence as of death, 
This relic of a bygone strife, 

While stilled forever is the breath 
That waked its music, gave it life; 

But could it tell its thrilling story, 

It would recount a tale of glory. 

For it could tell of that great struggle 
In our own homeland of the free. 

And of the part it played— this bugle, 
On Sherman's long march to the sea. 

When clear it trumpted each note 

That burst from out its silvery throat. 

Hushed now its voice — its work is o'er! 
No more it sounds the call to arms, 
Its music thrills the blood no more. 

Nor wakes the brave to war's alarms. 
As he, who quickened it to life, 
It rests from duty, free from strife. 

To The Bugle that did service at Gen. 
Sherman's Headquarters and on his march 
to the Sea. — /p//. 



42 



THE NEXT PRESIDENT. 

"Who's goin' to be the President 

Next time?" asked Uncle Ben, 
"And who deserves to be, think you, 
Of America's great men?" 
Said Uncle Joe, "We've got the stuff, 
We've got material enough. 

To begin with, there's our Roosevelt, 

I'll name him, though of course 
He don't figger as a candidate. 

Still a little artful force 
Might compel capitulation, 
Should they spring his nomination. 

Then there's Fairbanks, Knox, and — let me see, 

Oh yes! there's Governor Hughes, 
Each with a large constituency 

That boast it cannot lose." 
"You've named but true and loyal men. 
But they're not all," said Uncle Ben. 

"Well, there's Bryan, too," said Uncle Joe, 
(Here he made an ugly face) 
And other small fry on that side. 

Keeps sticking to the race; — 
Oh! I forgot to mention TaftV' 
Then both old chaps just roared and laughed! 

Now Uncle Ben, he cleared his throat. 

And said to Uncle Joe, 
"When you're namin' of our biggest men, 

Like they're settin' in a row. 
Why don't you rightly head the list? 
The biggest one of all, you've missed! 

The biggest and the grandest, too. 

Our country proud can boast. 
Although 'tis true, of noble sons, 

She has a mighty host! 
I'm speakin' now of our J. B. 
He is the candidate for me! 

43 



He stands for loyal fellow-man, 

Of whatever blood or race, 
And the right of man to plead his cause, 

When threatened with disgrace. 
Himself a soldier, tried and true. 
He asks for such a soldier's due. 

He never was a cowboy wild. 

Nor killed no 'Teddy bears,' 
At least I never heard of it, 

But by the way he dares 
To wield his good, strong arm for right, 
A whole menagerie he'd fight! 

'Twant never specified, I guess, 

As essential to the part. 
That a man who would be President, 

Must as a cowboy start, 
Nor be obUged to kill a bear, 
Who'd hope to occupy the chair. 

But when it comes to quaUties 

That would the office grace. 
Our peerless J. B. Foraker 

Stands in the foremost place! 
Our country's most deserving son, 
For President, he is just the one! 

He has the gifts that qualify 

For the Presidential Chair, 
And he can boast a record, too, 

That'll close inspection bear. 
Our Senior Senator, you see^^ 
Is the only candidate for me!" 

When Uncle Ben had said his say. 

He turned around to go. 
But chanced to catch the twmklmg eye, 

And smile of Uncle Joe, ^ ^ 

Who said, "Let me say somethin Ben, — 
To all you've said, I say, 'Amen!' 

44 



But you cut In 'fore I got through, 

You got a trifle fast, 
Instead o' namin' the biggest fust, 

I was goin' to name him last; 
Yes, I was waitin' to begin 
Oh that same Hne when you sailed in!" 

Then they shook hands, these fine old chaps, 

With hearty clasp and cling. 
And gave three cheers for Foraker! 

That made the welkin ring! 
And echo gave an answering cheer, 
"Hip, hip, hurrah for Foraker!" 

Written during the Presi- 
dential campaign of 1908 



46 



CONSOLATION. 

Why should the simple loss of hair, 

Afflict your soul with such despair, 

When other people's you can wear. 

Enough to make the public stare? 

Why should you "rare" and tear and swear? 

Of course you cannot well suppose 
That on the public you impose. 
For no one thinks, (though no one knows) 
Such wealth upon your own head grows. 
Not e'en your friends, or foes, or beaux. 

But since your brow you may adorn 
With fluffy tresses deftly worn. 
When of your own wealth you are shorn, 
Why should dear Mary sadly mourn. 
Or scanty locks be madly torn? 

Now, if I were compelled to choose 
That which I'd rather spare, or lose, 
My hair or head — here are my views: 
(The statement bald, I pray excuse) 
The crown of glory I'd refuse! 

For while such glory you may buy, 
When nature fails in her supply. 
Why, you may challenge Art's own eye, 
And even nature scorn, defy! 
No need to sigh, or cry, or dye! 

To Mary — 

In view of her "departing glory" 

and the remaining ''pathetic, little wad" 

igi2. 



46 



A SHEIK OF SAHARA. 

A Sheik of Sahara once got into trouble, 

Or, so 'twas reported — a terrible muddle! 

He told a young maid, (just imagine the thing!) 

Where a man could be found with a diamond ring! 

A man — and what's more — a man, I declare 

Who has^ — was it brains? — no a shock of red hair! 

Now I do not believe 

You'll be slow to perceive 

That this brilliant young Miss, 

Could but smile in her sleeve; 

For her love is a King, not a Sheik, nor a sheep, 

And his heart is her own forever to keep! 

Ay, a man among men, and a King among Kings, 

And he owns a whole barrel of diamond rings! 

That's why she's not wearing the commonplace things! 

Besides he has "dash," and a-plenty of "cash," 

And no fear of that Sheik a-making a "mash;" 

So, the wise thing for that Sheik to do, I would say, 

Is, go back to Sahara, and there let him stay! 

In answer to a valentine signed, 
''A Sheik of Sahara." 
February I4ih. 1899. 



47 



THE LEADING MAN. 

Once, every fool and wise man, too, 
(Or so 'tis said) since time began, 

Although the hardest part to do. 
Assumes the role of "Leading Man!" 

Yes, every son of Adam's race, 

From Adam clear on down to Chase! 

So Freeman dared to play the part, 
To try, thought he, would be no sin, 

To woo fair Ella, win her heart. 

And did he win? — did Freeman Winn? 

Look at the smiling, blushing bride 

Who stands so proudly by his side! 

How dear the Price it cost did seem, 
To play successfully this part! 

How dearer grow, he did not dream, 
Nor that the role required such art, 

But then, to see he's made a "hit," 

Does not require a grain of wit. 

'Twas like a long and hard-won race, 
But from the best received advice, 

The prize was worthy of the Chase, 

The Chase most richly worth the Price! 

Let Freeman Winn! In any case. 

His wife will ne'er give up the Chase! 

To my classmates in college, 
Ella Rebecca Price and Freeman Winn Chase, 
upon the event of their marriage, 
Novemeber i6th, 1^04. 



48 



SUSIE'S FELLER. 

^ {As portrayed by Susie^s little brother.) 

Me an' Susie's feller's thickern theeves! 

Him an' Susie's goan t'marry ever one b'leeves. 

But I shant tell no sekruts, an' nobuddy noaz, 

Tho' Suze's ben a-gittin' a mity site o' cloze; — 

I got sevral peeps at 'em, she don't no I did, 

She's so patiklur 'bout keepin' 'em hid! 

Her an' ma duz lots o' talkin', too, on the sly, 

Stoppin' of a suddint, whenever I cum by. 

But her feller! he's the best one 'at Susie ever had, 

He sutes me, an' pleezes ma, an' he's jes' immence with 

dad! 
So ef he wants t'marry Suze, 
I don't see why he kant, 
Fer you kin bet yer brand noo shuze, 
We wont say he shant! 
He 'greeze in polytix with pa, 
An' brags on ma's cookin'. 
An' says, "no wonder with sech a ma, 
Susie's so good-lookin' !" 
But the best thing 'bout him I kin see, 
Is, 'at he jes zvurships me! 
Brings me kandy an' things to eet, 
That I'll be boun' kant be beet! 
Fixt my kite, helps sail my boat, 
An's promist to bring me a reel live goat! 
But Tommy Snodgrass sez I'm meller, 
To freaz so tite to Susie's feller, 
Sez he's jes sof-sopin' me, 
(Tom's as envyus as kin be!) 
But Susie's feller — he's all rite! 
Anywaiz he treats me white! 
He never asts me at the tabul. 
Who killed Kain, or who wuz Abul, 
Makin' the foax all look at me, 
Soaz I must upset my tee, 
Er choak on sumpin, er drop my fork, 

49 



An' wush him furthern Noo York! 
An' then he never calls me "kid," 
Like Susie's other fellers did, 
Ner teeze me 'bout that Jones boy's sister, 
'At I jes hate! — an' say I kist her! 
Ner make remarx about my hair, 
Cauz the culler of it's rare; 
He don't encurridge the layin' roun' 
O' pins pints up, where he'll set down; 
In short, it's plane as plane kin be. 
He's stuck on our foax — spechuUy me\ 

Written about i8go. 



60 



THE FISHING. 

Two worthy dames were often wishing 

With all their hearts to go a fishing — 

That they had nothing else to do, 

But just to fish, the whole day through! 

To get away from every care 

And trouble to which flesh is heir. 

And through the livelong, sunny day, 

Just fish and fish the hours away! 

This was the burden of their dreams, 

They seldom talked on other themes. 

Upon this thing their minds seemed bent 

And as they needed none's consent. 

They just made up their minds that they 

Would go a fishing, one fine day. 

So, armed with rods and lines and bait, 

They sallied forth in royal state. 

And leaving all their cares behind, 

These worthy dames their steps inclined 

To where the river broadly smiles. 

And e'en the wary one beguiles. 

And there, as they so long had wished. 

They sat and fished, and fished, and fished! 

'Tis true, indeed, on sport intent. 

These worthy dames a fishing went, 

But they returned in sorry plight. 

They did not get a single bite! 

And sad to think, oh! very sad! 

These worthy dames were somewhat mad! 

But this each caught, (so I was told) 

A frightful monster — of a cold ! 

Written in the summer of i8qi. 



61 



CRISMUS COMIN'. 

{''Uncle' talks to the Pickaninnies.) 

Good ole Crismus am a-comin', 

An' hit gittin' mighty nigh, 
Doan yo' heah de angels strummin' 

On deah banjoes in de sky? 
Lissen clos' — 'peahs lak dey hummin', 
"Little chillun, Crismus comin', 
Hit'll be heah bimeby." 

Ebry pickerninny's stockin' 

Gotter hang up by de flu', 
Er ole Santy wont leab nofiin 

Foh a single one ob yo'. 
Dem scanlus tings yo' mammy say, 
Dey mus' be mendered right erway, 

Else de stuffin' all drap fru! 

Mighty bizzy man am Santy, 
Got no time ter fool erway. 

When he step in dishyer shanty, 
Monstrus little time he stay. 

Gotter ten' ter bizness steady, 

Ef de stockins aint be ready — 
Hops right 'im lightin' sleigh! 

Lan! sech holes! Hit sho' am shockin'! 

How yo' reckon Santy do? 
Gwine ter pars by ebry stockin' — 

*Less yo' men' 'em good an' true. 
Mandy Jane! yo' quite yo' rockin'l 
Git t'wuk an' patch yo' stockin', 

Lak yo' mammy tell yo' to! 

Whut de mattah now wid Sissy? 

Whut dat chile a-crying' 'bout? 
No indeedy, little Missy, 

Yo' aint gwine ter be lef out! 
Yo' lil' stockin' stuffed wid candy 
Sho' will be, foh sistah Mandy 

Mek hit so hit good an' stout. 



Dar now honey, doan be grievin'! 

Bettah larf instiddah cry, 
Yo' ole Uncle aint deceivin', 

Santy nebbah pars yo' byl 
When yo' see de tings he fetchin' 
How yo' little stockin' stretchin' — 

Hoi' yo' brefl — an' bug yo' eyel 

Bress de lam'! Hit sho' am funny 
Santy know jes whut ter bring. 

But dat am 'im bizness, honey. 
Cose he know mos' ebrytingl 

He know heap mo' — laws-a-massyl 

Dan yo' Uncle er Aunt Cassyl 
'Spec he sompin lak er King! 

Alius trabels in er hurry, 

But he gran' an' stylish, too, 

Wahs a cap and coat all furry, 
Mighty lak de rich folks do. 

But his heart— dar aint none biggah, 

Foh he min' de little niggah, 
He remembah all ob yo'. 

Cose he got ter be a-speedin'. 

So he finish fo' hit day. 
But he tote whut yo'all needin'. 

When he trablin' on his way, 
Wid dat reindeah team so nobby— 
(Reindeahs sho' am Santy's hobby) 

I'se done tol' yo' 'bout de sleigh. 

Comes, he do, when yo'all sleepin'. 
Fills yo' stockins on de sly, — 

Ef he cotch an eye a-peepin'. 

He doan stop ter say goo'bye— 

Grabs his pack an' up de chimbly, 

Way he come, he scoot so nimbly 
An' so fas' yo' tinkhefly! 

63 



Dar he fin' de reindeahs waitin' 
Wid de sleigh out on de roof, 

How dey got dar, I'se not statin', 
But dey dar, an' dat de truff! 

Den erway dey go a-dashin' 

Fru de snow and ahr a-flashin' — 
When yo' sees 'em , cose hit pruff! 

Crismus time am sho'ly wingin', 
Be heah fo' yo' bat yo' eye, 

Good ole possum hit am bringin', 
Puddin', cake an' chicken-pie! 

Trus' Aunt Cassy fo' de fixins, 

Bilin', bakin', an' de mixins, 
Caint outdone huh, ef yo' try! 

Aint yo' smell dat possum roas'in', 
Smack yo' lips an' tas' him too? 

An' de sweeten-taters toas'in'? 
Ef yo' aint, yo' Uncle do. 

Lordy! how my ole mouf wortah, 

Jes a-tinkin — dreamin' sortah — 
But de dream am comin' true! 

Gib dat possum ter Aunt Cassy, 
When she do huh berry bes' 

Wid de rascal fat an' sassy. 
Let yo' Uncle do de res'! 

Bake him good an' brown an' tendah, 

Den ah bus' mah ole su'pendah, 
An' de buttons off mah ves'! 



Whut yo' say? Shucks! yo' git plenty! 

Uncle leab some nebbah feah, 
Dar be cooked ernuff foh twenty! — 

So yo, boun' ter git yo' sheah. 
Cose yo' 'spected ter eat hahty. 
At yo' Uncle's dinnah pahty, 

Crismus come but onct er yeah. 

54 



But taint propah ter ak greedy, 

Lak yo' nebbah et befo', 
Min' yo' mannahs! yas, indeedy! 

'Nuddah time yo' mought git mo',- 
'Less yo' bus' yo' insides eatin', 
Den dar be no mo' repeatin' 

Ob de pleazuh, dat am sho'. 

Um! de truck yo' Aunty makin'! 

Hesh yo' mouf an' tak er snuflf! 
Puddins, pies, an' cakes she bakin', 

Fo' yo' all's insides ter stuff, 
Ef yo' Uncle aint m'stakin', 
Yo' HI' stummicks all be achin' 

Fo' yo' knows yo' got ernuff! 

Mistah Crismus gittin' nighah, 
Soon be steppin' roun' onct mo', 

Caint yo' step a little spryah, 
Mistah, dan yo' has befo'? 

Cose we doan wush ter be crowdy, 

But we wants ter tell yo' "howdy!" — 

An' ter meet yo' at de do.' 



Christmas IQ18 



66 



A SONG OF PRAISE. 

As straws may show the way wind blows, 
So holes and darns bespeak poor hose, 
From which, as everybody knows. 
There follows fast a train of woes. 
Such woes, indeed, are hard to master, 
When on the heels of each disaster, 
There follow fresh ones, fast and faster! 

Now if these troubles you would end, 

Your fortune and your hose both mend. 

To me an ear attentive lend. 

While I the sure cure recommend. 

The remedy that I suggest, 

If you but try, you'll find the best 

Of any ever put to test. 

It is no secret I declare. 

But 'tis a privilege all may share, — 

A privilege I mean to wear 

The Wear-proof hose, — beyond compare! 

You'll find no other hose as nice 

In style, or looks, or fit, or price. 

Besides, they'll outwear others thrice! 

That Wear-proof hose will wear indeed, 
A proof that "he who runs may read," 
And one that you'll do well to heed. 
Is, that they're fully guaranteed 
Four months, without a darn or hole 
In heel, or toe, or leg, or sole; 
The makers thus their worth extol. 

Such comfort and delight they bring. 
Away all other kinds you'll fling. 
And to the Wear-proof fondly cling. 
Whose praise you will forever sing. 
They're fashioned just to fit the feet, 
So they're both comfortable and neat. 
And you'll declare, "They can't be beat!" 

56 



They're products of a perfect plan, 

The best hose made since time began, 

For wear of woman, child, or man — 

Of hosiery, they lead the van! 

In silk and lisle and cotton, too. 

Of styles both beautiful and new, 

You're sure to find just what suits you! 

A straw may show the way wind blows, 
The fickle wind, in turn, oft shows 
(Alike to either friends or foes) 
The holes and darns upon your hose, 
Which you, alas! with humbled pride. 
Have desperately and vainly tried 
Beneath your skirt, or pants, to hide. 

You flush beneath the scornful glance. 
As sharp and keen as any lance. 
Bent just below said skirt, or pants, 
(Your sex decides which circumstance). 
You know that just above your shoe. 
Both holes and darns appear to view. 
Each moment growing larger, too! 

And then there falls upon your ear, 
(Perhaps not meant for you to hear) 
A chance remark, and very clear, 
A sound resembling a sneer. 
It is in vain you turn your head. 
Your face becomes a firey red. 
You wish, alas! that you were dead! 

That glance seems fastened on like glue, 
You feel it piercing through your shoe 
And laying bare your sole to view. 
Besides what each poor toe's gone through! 
While each and every separate hole 
Upon your heel, or toe, or sole. 
Feels like a burning, red-hot coal! 

57 



Now, if you wear the Wear-proof hose, 
No matter how the strong wind blows, 
No hole or darn would it expose, 
But 'twould to all, this truth disclose, 
(Which you've no doubt already guessed) 
That Wear-proof hosiery stands the test 
Of wear and wind and weather, best. 

A scornful glance you do not dread, 
When to the Wear-proof you are wed; 
You're proud to show such hose, instead, 
And so, lift high your skirts and head. 
Assured that every passing glance 
That on your ankles falls by chance. 
Will linger there as in a trance! 

And furthermore, you do not fear 

A chance remark, or covert sneer. 

They're meant for some one else — that's clear. 

When you wear hose without a peer! 

The hose I mean — the peerless kind, 

As those who wear them always find. 

Are Wear-proof hose, please bear in mind. 

No longer need your soul despair. 
No need to feel such anxious care 
When you put on a Wear-proof pair, 
For they're the kind that always wear! 
They're made of such superior yarn. 
You never have a hole to darn. 
To save your sole from future harm. 

Would you darn socks the whole year round, 
When such a treasure can be found, 
(Which may, indeed, belief astound!) 
As hose that stay quite whole and sound? 
If you are reasonable you'll see 
That time thus spent would foolish be. 
And such work, wasted energy. 



Now if you're wise, I know you'll try 
The Wear-proof hose, when next you buy, 
(Though low in price, they yet come high — 
This fact indeed, I'll not deny) 
And then, I'm sure that you'll agree 
And ever after sing with me 
The praise of Wear-proof hosiery! 

By way of advertisement, IQIJ. 



THE O. K. UNDERWEAR. 



Now comes the O. K. Underwear 

Displayed by dealers everywhere; 

But should you meet, by any change, 

Such an unlucky circumstance 

As — ''out of stock" — the thing to do, 

Is have them order some for you 

Directly from the O. K. mills. 

Whose force each order promptly fills. 

You'll find their goods are "just immense!" 

A single garment fifty cents: 

At such a price, the first to pay, 

For they are knit the dollar way: 

Instead of eight ribs to the inch, 

They're now made ten, and that's a "cinch!" 

So roomy — cannot scratch, or pinch. 

They're close-knit, but elastic, too. 

Just try them, and you'll find it true. 

When O. K. Underwear you've known, 

No other kind you'll ever own. 

A dollar buys a union-suit. 

And cheap at that, none can dispute. 

Goodbye goose-flesh and chattering teeth, 

When you an O. K. are beneath. 

For they are woolly, soft and warm, 

And shaped to fit the human form. 

When this fine garment you are ip. 

It's like pure joy against your skin! 

The wear is knit of mule-spun yarn — 

There's never any hole to darn; 

And also made with rip-proof seams, 

The kind of which one reads — and dreams, 

But hitherto has failed to find, 

Until there came the O. K. kind; 

And being fine and closely knit. 

The cuffs and collars snugly fit; 

The shoulders and the ankles, too. 

In fact, all parts are fashioned true. 



The elbows and the seat, you'll find 

Are full and wide, so do not bind; 

The buttons, pearl, and such a size 

As gives both pleasure and surprise; 

All edges, too, are laundry-proof. 

Which sounds too good to be the truth. 

In naming features that excel. 

Long on the subject I might dwell. 

And yet not all their merits tell. 

The pudding's proof — you know the rest, 

Just put the O. K. to the test. 

And prove the truth I've tried to show, 

The facts that I would have you know, 

For in buying knitted underwear. 

You only need to have a care 

To get that with the O. K. label. 

To learn this tale is not a fable. 

Another advertisement, 191 S- 



ei 



THE POET. 

A poet not alone is he 

Who needs must write in poetry, 

But one who sees, and thinks, and feels, 

To whom God's handiwork appeals. 

A poet he, by right divine. 

Though he may never write a line. 

Not he alone whose magic pen 

Can thrill the hearts and souls of men. 

Whose words, expressing thought sublime. 

Are fashioned forth in pleasing rhyme, 

But he who lifts admiring eyes. 

To see the rainbow in the skies. 

Not he alone whose subtle skill 

In weaving words, the world may thrill, 

Who's master of poetic art, 

But he who has a poet's heart. 

To which a child, by instinct, turns, 

When for rare sympathy it yearns. 

Not he alone whose name is heard 
And spoken as a household word — 
Whose name and works alike are known 
And praised in every clime and zone. 
But he whose humble name, may be 
Entombed in deep obscurity. 

And though he never may aspire 
Or dare to touch the sacred lyre. 
His gift it is to understand 
The works of nature's mighty hand. 
'Tis he whose quickened eyes behold 
Alone, the rose above the mold. 

The poet sees God's love and power, 
Within the heart of every flower. 
Whose soul with nature may converse. 
Throughout the boundless universe, 
Who owns a kinship with the clod. 
And looks through nature up to God. 

To Elmer — igi6. 



MY PRAYER. 

Dear Lord of Love, on bended knee, 
In prayer I lift my heart to Thee, 
And with this plea my prayer begins. 
That Thou wilt pardon all my sins! 
Forgive! O Lord Divine, forgive, 
And teach me how to better live! 
Remember not, O Lord most blessed! 
How oft Thy laws I have transgressed. 
How oft my wayward feet have strayed 
From paths wherein they should have stayed, 
But help, dear Lord, I humbly pray, 
To keep my feet In Virtue's way. 

Yet when Thy laws I dare to break, 
And Duty's righteous paths forsake. 
Oh! may a sense of guilt and shame 
Sweep o'er my conscience, like a flame. 
And wake within a contrite breast, 
The misery of wrong's unrest! 

From sin's strong bondage set me free! 
From all Its wiles deliver me! 
Remove, I pray, its subtle lure, 
Cleanse Thou and keep my spirit pure, 
And in temptation, make me strong. 
To do the right and shun the wrong! 

For all Thy blessings, rich and free. 
Thy many mercies shown to me, 
I thank Thee, Lord, and for Thy care 
Spread round about me everywhere, 
That ever doth my steps attend. 
And shall unto the journey's end. 

And when that end shall come to me, 

At home, abroad, on land or sea. 

Forbid that I of faith should fail. 

Or feel a coward spirit quail. 

Let no vague doubts distrub my breast, 

Or enter In to mar Its rest. 



May no dark fears my mind control, 

Or shake the courage of my soul; 

Let nothing rob my faith in Thee, 

But let me fare forth trustingly 

Out through the Shadow and the Night, 

Into the Everlasting Light 1 

For length of days, I do not pray. 
But that along my humble way. 
Though few the years Thy grace shall grant. 
Some seeds of kindness I may plant. 
And that each day may be well spent, 
Thus filled with peace and sweet content. 

A life of ease I do not ask. 

But heart and hands for every task. 

The strength and grace to toil and bear 

Life's burdens and its weight of care; 

Instead of slothful, idle ease, 

Dear Father, only grant me these! 

For many friends, I'll not implore 
Thee, whom I humbly bow before. 
But O dear Lord, grant me a few. 
That I may feel are staunch and true! 
And then, I pray, let me not prove 
Unworthy of their faith and love. 

'Twould gratify no vain desire. 
To have laid upon Love's altar fire, 
The sacrifice of many hearts. 
For me to prove the charmer's arts; 
But I would cherish one alone. 
One spirit kindred to mine own. 

Give me but one responsive heart, 
Of mine, the perfect counterpart, 
With sympathy that understands 
And satisfies the soul's demands. 
That answers every smile and sigh, 
And all the rest may pass me by! 

64 



Instead of outward charms and grace, 
And beauty of both form and face, 
rd ask, dear Lord, be it Thy will, 
Thy child's petition to fulfill. 
The rarer graces of the mind. 
With beauty of the soul combined. 

I do not covet lands, or gold. 
Or jewels that my hands may hold, 
For better than such riches, far. 
The gems of truth and virtue are, ^ 
Than which no others brighter shine, 
Let these rare jewels. Lord, be mine! 

Nor do I crave renown, or fame. 

But only an unsullied name 

That in the Book of Life Thy grace 

May count as worthy of a place; 

For praise of men I shall not care. 

If only it be written there! 

This, Heavenly Father, is my prayer I 



jgi6. 



65 



THE HOME AND FIRESIDE. 

The love of home and one's own fireside, is a sentiment 
as natural and abiding, as the love one cherishes for his 
parents, and, like that, it seems to have no definite beginning, 
unless indeed, it begins with the first breath of individual 
existence. Our earliest recollections cling to some hallowed 
spot known by the familiar name of home, and home is 
the center round which life circles to its close. 

What varied emotions thrill the bosom in contemplating 
the theme 1 What memories are awakened! It is within the 
sacred precincts of home we greet the beloved presence of 
father and mother, and under the influence of their counsel 
and the example of their lives, our own characters are, in a 
great measure, moulded. It is here we receive our first 
impressions of truth and beauty and gain our first ideas of 
life and its responsibilities. How unfortunate the life, in- 
deed how sad the lot of one who never knew a father's care 
or a mother's love; to whom is denied the memory of a 
mother's smile, a father's blessing! But far more unfor- 
tunate the one, though neither fatherless nor motherless, 
whose life is bereft of the heavenly influences of a true home, 
whose feet are taught to follow dark and hidden ways rather 
than the paths of righteousness. Oh! the comforts, the 
delights, the peace of a true home! It contains the sweetest 
consolations and the richest rewards of life. To it, we look 
for encouragement, sympathy and support, and from it, 
more than from any other source, receive assistance and 
inspiration! 

It is the birthplace of our brightest hopes, highest am- 
bitions and noblest resolves; the source of our most innocent 
pleasures, our deepest, most real happiness. It is the abode 
of our tenderest sympathies, warmest affections and most 
loyal faith. 

But the fireside, of all places connected with the home, 
is the most familiar and delightful. Here, after the busy day 
is over, are gathered father, mother, brothers and sisters. 
Let us pause for a moment, to contemplate the charmed 
circle. Shall we ever forget the picture.^ No matter how 
far from it our feet may wander, no matter how far we be 



removed by time, It Is to the fireside scenes and associations 
that memory will oftenest return and dwell upon with most 
lingering fondness. 

At the fireside, who has not Indulged the "long, long 
thoughts" of youth? Whose fancy has not been quickened 
by the glowing flame, until his future rose before him, 
clothed in the garb of living reality? Oh! the possibilities 
of the unknown future, the glories of untried paths and the 
wealth of untasted joys! Yet, who has not had visions to 
which the soft firelight gave color and bright promise of 
realization, that faded from fancy's view, as does the 
glow from the firelight, until only the ashes of hope remained? 

I It is in speaking of the pleasures of the social circle, that 

Washington Irving pays this beautiful tribute to the fireside: 

"There our thoughts are more concentrated, our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the 
charm of each other's society and are brought more closely 
together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. 
Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from 
the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet 
recesses of our bosoms, and which when resorted to, furnish 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without, makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer 
and sunshine through the room, and lights up each counte- 
nance into a kindilier welcome. When does the honest face 
of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile, 
where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent than 
by the winter fireside? And as the hollow blast of wintry 
wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement and rumbles down the chimney, what 
can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered 
security with which we look round upon the comfortable 
chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?" 

Has one wandered away from the shelter and love of the 
fireside into temptation and sin, what Is so Hkely to arouse 
his sense of shame, or bring repentance to his soul, as the 

67 



remembrance of the fireside he left, with all its sacred in- 
fluences? Perhaps the picture of a mother's sweet, earnest 
face rises before him, gazing upon him with tender, yet 
reproachful eyes. Can he endure that silent reproof and 
not resolve in the depths of his heart to forsake his evil 
way and return to the path she taught him to follow? 

To the absent one, there is a surpassing rapture in the 
anticipation of the home return. Who has not experienced 
it? How fondly the mind pictures the awaited greeting! 
How each loved face, in imagination, is beaming with love 
and wreathed with smiles of welcome! Again is felt the 
warm pressure of the hand and lip, which speak so much 
more than the faltering tongue in those first rapturous mo- 
ments. Every familiar spot about the dear, old place, 
beckons us homeward. The friendly boughs of the old 
trees invite us to rest in the shade they spread on the soft 
carpet of grass beneath them. Already we breathe the pure, 
fresh air and listen to the murmur of the stream and song 
of birds. With what quickening pulse have we counted 
the weeks, then the days and at last the hours, ay, the very 
moments, that must elapse before the living picture greets 
our longing eyes! And the completed joy, the full realiza- 
tion, is beyond the power of words to express! 

But our earthly homes are only temporary abodes. They 
must one day be broken and we must leave them to return 
no more, but oh! — blessed hope of Immortality! — there is a 
home which is abiding, where all is sunshine, peace and love, 
and this human love and longing and need of a home, teaches 
us to look to that home beyond the tomb as our permanent 
abode, that "House not made with hands, eternal in the 
Heavens." 

Oration delivered upon grad- 
uating from the Preparatory 
Department of Rio Grande Col- 
lege, June II, 1894. 



68 



THE ADVANCE OF UNIVERSAL PEACE. 

Near the close of the nineteenth century, Victor Hugo 
prophesied: "Before the end of the twentieth century, war 
will be dead; the scaffold will be dead; national frontier 
divisions will be dead; hatred will be dead; creed will be 
dead; but man will live." 

This prophecy embodies a sublime hope and covers in 
its vast sweep, the sum of human interests. The oppor- 
tunity has not yet arrived to declare how clear was the pro- 
phetic vision. That the world is advancing intellectually 
and morally, there is no longer room to doubt. It needs 
but a brief study of history to be convinced of this truth. 
It is surprising that anyone can be a pessimist in the face 
of such abundant evidence that the tendency of the thought 
of to-day is toward a higher plane, that the sentiment of to- 
day is broader, more sympathetic. 

In spite of the recent wars of South Africa, China and the 
Phillipines — in spite of this stain upon Christian civilization, 
it is, perhaps, the first item in the prophecy quoted, that one 
may judge as having more nearly reached fulfillment; — 
that before the close of the twentieth century war will be 
dead. The idea of universal peace long cherished by philan- 
thropists, and as long sneered at as the fruitless dream of the 
visionary, is now agitating the great heart of the world. 
It has at last had a hearing. It has been made a theme of 
international consideration and received recognition as an 
attainable end. 

The Peace Conference called by the Czar of Russia in 
1899, in which the most important nations of the globe 
were represented, is a most remarkable indication of the 
broader spirit that is beginning to dominate mankind. The 
Czar declared that the time was ripe for such a conference, 
as every important treaty made in the last quarter of a 
century, contained some such suggestion or reference to the 
necessity and possibility of such a consummation. This 
council marks an epoch in the history of humanity. 
Well may it be the initiative of the new century. It is the 
most significant council convened in 1900 years. Its work 



may be truly called the crowning triumph of the ages! What 
a mighty stride forward! What a step toward the estab- 
lishment of "Peace on earth," and "Good will toward men!" 
It is not surprising that in response to the Czar's invitation 
to this conference, many nations stood still, or made but a 
weak and halting advance, so colossal was the step proposed, 
and it should be a matter of pride to English people that 
England and America moved at once to the front and in 
unison! It has been said that it is a great thing to get a 
great word uttered. All honor to the Czar of Russia, who 
has voiced this mighty sentiment for humanity and set in 
motion the tremendous vibration that has thrilled round 
the globe! 

But there is a vast work to be accomplished before all 
nations will fall into line with this advanced movement. A 
vigorous campaign must be carried on against the prevailing 
sentiment in favor of the institutions of war. Nations vie 
with each other in maintaining the largest navies and 
standing armies, in the building of costly and splendidly 
equipped war vessels, in producing terrible engines of 
destruction, which though today are regarded as the climax 
of inventive genius, are destined to be displaced tomorrow 
by some new dis<iovery or device, all of which is at the 
expense, not only of enormous sums of mon'ey, but alas! 
of both national and individual culture, progress and wealth- 
producing power. 

History illustrates the fact that those nations only that 
labor to develop that which is highest and best in man, 
make helpful contributions to the world. Can it be said 
that the training of men in the art of killing each other, 
develops within them that which is highest and best.^ In 
ancient Sparta, boys were placed at the age of seven years 
under public officers, whose duty it was to train them in the 
business of warfare, to inure them to its hardships, to make 
of them a nation of warriors. Their entire course was to 
this end, and a nation of warriors they became, as the long 
military supremacy of Sparta among the Grecian states 
attests. The education of the mind was attended to only 
so far as its development served to contribute to success in 

70 



war. Sparta, in notable contrast to her rival Athens, be- 
queathed nothing to posterity. The rigid military disci- 
pline of the German soldiery has long been a subject of 
renown. The iron rule of the German power for years 
compelled a three years service in her standing army, of 
everyone of her able-bodied sons. In the last decade the 
term has been reduced to two years. The military academies 
in our own country, and the high degree of excellence at- 
tained in all departments of their work, are objects of 
especial pride to Americans. It is a high honor even to 
be permitted to enter these institutions, the cadet-ship 
being conferred by appointment, or won through competi- 
tive examination. So, only the most promising youth of 
the land gain an entrance, and these pledge themselves to 
serve eight years, unless sooner discharged. The best 
part of vigorous manhood is thus spent in the environment 
of constant suggestions of war. No matter how extensive the 
course of mental culture may be, the familiarity with the 
tools of death and with the thoughts suggested by them, 
cannot but blunt the finer sensibilities and cause human 
life to be held less sacred. 

Public sentiment needs to be educated yet, that it may 
cease to cling so tenaciously to these customs of barbarism, 
refined though they have become! There are some evils 
so radical and which have been tolerated so long, that men 
come to regard them as necessary. The greater problem is 
not in eradicating the evil, but in uprooting the idea of its 
necessity from the mind of man. The keynote of the situa- 
tion was touched by Longfellow when he wrote: 

Were half the power that fills the world with terror. 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts. 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals and forts. 

The field of battle has been pictured as a place upon which 
to win honor, and war — bloody, cruel, relentless war, — has 
been called glorious! Can that be a glorious thing which 
intentionally destroys human life.? When men meet in 
battle to slaughter each other, it is not called murder, but 
Victor Hugo says: "If to kill is a crime, to kill much cannot 

71 



be an extenuating circumstance. Bloodshed is bloodshed. 
It alters nothing to call one's self Caesar or Napoleon. In 
the eye of the eternal God a murderer is not changed in 
character, because, instead of a hangman's cap, he wears 
upon his head an Emperor's crown. Ah! my friends, let 
us dishonor war! Bloody glory does not exist. It cannot 
be that men are to be born, that the peasant is to fertilize 
the fields, and workmen enrich the cities; that thinkers are 
to meditate and instructors are to teach; that industry is 
to perform its marvels; that genius is to accomplish its prodi- 
gies; that the great human activity is to multiply its efforts 
and creations, in order to produce that frightful international 
exhibition which is called a field of battle!" 

This is no invective against the spirit of loyal and patriotic 
devotion to country which fires men to deeds of heroism 
and self-sacrifice. It is no reproach upon those, who, in 
response to their country's call, take up arms in her defense. 
It is an invective against war as an institution — against the 
instigators of war — those who thirst for bloodshed and 
quicken the spirit of the savage. The most loyal patriots and 
the greatest generals and soldiers have been those whose 
hearts bled over the cruel waste of war. Wellington said, 
"Nothing, except a battle lost, can be half so melancholy 
as a battle won." It is indeed a marked proof of patriot- 
ism and loyalty that men are willing to suffer, and if neces- 
sary, lay down their lives for their country, but this is not 
the only proof of patriotism. It does not take war to make 
patriots. Patriotism of the highest type is the product of 
peace. True patriotism looks less to aggrandizement and 
glory, than to the mental and spiritual welfare of the nation. 
The normal state of mankind is one of peace and the records 
of history show that the mightiest achievements of all na- 
tions and ages were wrought during times of peace. Prog- 
ress and peace go ever' hand in hand. The age of Pericles, 
the most illustrious in the history of Greece and to which 
the world still looks with wonder, was an era of peace. 
The Augustan age, embracing the most splendid period 
in the annals of Rome, was, perhaps, a longer season of 
rest from the turmoil of war than the world had enjoyed up 
to that time. The Elizabethan age, if not a period of 

72 



peace throughout, was one In which England was not in- 
volved in long or continuous warfare. Our own country 
furnishes a fine illustration of the results of peace. If "that 
fatal thing called war," could be kept from the records 
of the future, what an Inestimable saving to the world it 
would be! What might not the wealth and the energy 
devoted to its deadly service, contribute to the advance- 
ment and happiness of mankind! 

While a great part of the world's history has been written 
in blood, it is gratifying to note, that with the advance of 
civilization, fostered by the spirit of Christianity, most of 
the causes that formerly provoked war, have become a 
dead letter. Nations no longer go to war because a beauti- 
ful woman runs away from her husband, nor are there any 
longer wars waged for personal aggrandizement, nor again 
so much for conquest. 

The greatly increased international intercourse of later 
years has had a wonderful efi'ect in bringing nations Into 
closer bonds of union and sympathy with each other. The 
practices and customs of war, itself, have steadily grown 
milder and more humane. In view of these significant 
facts, it does not seem unreasonable to anticipate the 
coming of an era of permanent peace, when "We will beat 
our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning 
hooks and the nations shall no more lift up the sword against 
nation, neither will we learn war any more." 

"Put off, put off your mail ye Kings, and beat your brands to dust, 
A surer grasp your hands must know, your hearts a better trust; 
Nay, bend aback the lance's point and break the helmet bar; 

A noise is in the morning winds, but not the note of war. 

Among the grassy mountain paths, the glittering troops increase. 

They come, they come! How fair their feet! They come that publish 
peace!" 

Oration delivered upon graduating from 
Rio Grande College. June 13th, igoi. 



73 



OUR OLD CAMP GROUND AND ITS MEMORIES. 

It is our privilege to meet once more in a Reunion which 
awakens memories both joyous and sad, and it is a pleasure 
as well as a privilege, to be able to exchange with each other 
reminiscences of the past. 

Who has not listened with absorbing interest, to the story 
of daring adventure or thrilling experience, recounted by 
our Grand Army Veterans.? And who, in listening, has not 
been impressed, not only with their display of pride and 
patriotism, but also with their evident pleasure and satis- 
faction in telling, especially to one another, some particular 
occurence, or recalling some distinctive event of the struggle 
in which each played a part.? 

What an experiemce it would be, for comrades in battle, 
to meet again after the lapse of long years, and literally go 
over the same ground trodden by them during a great en- 
gagement! 

We are "Tenting tonight on the Old Camp-ground" — 
the scene of our conflicts and engagements — particularly 
engagements! — and as a company of veterans gathered 
around a camp-fire, we are enjoying the rehearsal of the 
memorable events of our experience. As between comrades 
in war, there is a peculiar bond of sympathy and fellowship 
existing between us, in that we have so much in common. 
We have entertained like hopes, braved like dangers, suffered 
like defeats and enjoyed similar triumphs! 

More than that, we have attachments and affections in 
common: Our mutual regard for our Alma Mater and de- 
votion to her interests; our familiarity with these old walls 
and halls, that speak to us with an almost audible voice; 
our appreciation of all the natural charms of this environ- 
ment — the delightful prospect that greets the eye upon 
every hand; the long association and friendship we have 
enjoyed with our beloved teachers — most of us with the 
members of the present faculty — all from a tie that unites 
us in one strong fellowship, which please God, may never 
be broken! 

74 



No period of one's life, perhaps, is so rich and full as that 
of his schooldays, and no period so dear to the heart, or 
so treasured in memory. When one has added to his child- 
hood school days, a college career, he is indeed rich in mem- 
ories — if in nothing else. How many here tonight have 
met their fate or their fortune upon this old camp-ground! 
the romances, conspicuous for their number, begun here, 
some of which at least, have resulted so happily, give ample 
proof that these familiar scenes recall to many, some of the 
happiest moments of their lives, and to all, they are re- 
minders of never-to-be-forgotten events and experiences. 
So 

While we gather tonight this board around. 

Let us pledge a toast to the Old Camp-ground! 

To the old Camp-ground and its memories dear. 

That grow more precious, year by year! 

To the hopes we have cherished, kindled here! 

To the good that we sought. 

And the truths we were taught. 

To the treasures of learning, that cannot be bought! 

To the rare opportunities all should have found 

For improvement and culture, since here they abound! 

To all that is best on the old Camp-ground! 

To the friends we have met here, friends tried and true. 

To these, dear old Camp-ground, to these and to you\ 

In response to the toast: 
^^Our Old Camp-ground and its 
Memories " given at the Alumni 
Reunion and Banquet, at Rio Grande 
College, June i6th, IQOQ. 



75 



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